Ruff! Were Bob's ears playing tricks on him? Don't pull that shit with me Bob. That there's the voice of fear. You've decided. You promised him. You promised him. You said you'd look out for him. And he needs you.

The call had felt distant, imagined almost, conjured up from the rhythmic war music of the beetles. The beetles stood ready, battle line after battle line, and each tapped its horn against its fellow's, creating double echoes that seem to shiver in the air.

Bob paced up; he was running at top speed, the beetles waiting for impact with leveled horns. Bob swallowed down his fear. He pulled up his hood. Sight wouldn't help him here. He'd trust in luck and Harry and hope. Maybe once he got in their midst they wouldn't be able to use their horns effectively. He'd jump over the first line then barrel through. He'd manage. He'd been in tighter spots before.

Ruff! Bob knew that voice. He tried to turn and look over his shoulder without slowing down. He tripped, splatting into the wet mud, still a good thirty paces from the beetles (Bob was a slow runner).

Bob peeled himself out of the mud and looked back: "George?"

It was George all right. There was the dog trotting happily towards his master. George was a fair deal lighter than Bob and it looked like the wave had carried him further out into the plains, even to the edge of the grasslands. The dog had probably just now made it back onto the mud flats and in sight of Bob (hence the barking).

"Dammit George," Bob pounded his fist against the mud as his mouth wrestled itself out of his control and into a giant grin. He shook his head and quietly thanked his lucky stars, before glaring at the dog.

"You confounded dog. Do you have any idea how much you made me worry? I was... I was..." Bob sputtered.

George licked Bob's cheek.

"Don't think I'll forgive you just like that. Don't think for a moment," he pointed at the army of beetle, "I was about to die for you George. You realize that right. I, Bob Brown, was about to throw myself into a line of armed monsters like some Greek hero, for your damn sake, and what were you doing, why you, I bet you were just frolicking around in the grass. Stop it George, stop it, it tickles." Bob giggled as he pushed away the dog. "George, time and place. This is serious. We have problems."

Bob got himself up and dusted himself off.

"And George, don't think this conversation is over. I'm pissed. I mean you set me up for a glorious self-sacrifice scene and then you burst in at the last moment with a how-do-you-do. Bullshit."

Still George might have showed up thirty seconds later, so Bob would count his blessings. Either way the dream team was back together. It was time to rumble:

Bob Brown, junior QA developer; George Brown, unemployed dog VS Horde of suicidal Kriegskäfer (levels 3-5). Fight!

Bob picked his nose. Shut up. It was a nervous tic. He couldn't help it. It's not like anybody was looking. The beetles ground forward. Bob had expected a kamikaze rush, but the beetles kept discipline. Long practice, the flat ground, the familiar formation all proved sufficient tonic to any roiling emotions.

"George, any plans?"

Ruff!

"No I don't mean for later. I mean, plans for dealing with them." He thumbed over at the beetles.

The beetles really ought to have kamikaze rushed. Bob and George were shooting the breeze. Bob was weaponless. George was a dog. They were easy pickings. Sometimes traditions are the death of a civilization. Instead there was a slow and ordered advance, step by step, as the beetles edged imperceptibly forward.

Bob shaded his eyes and watched them come. He reckoned he had at least thirty seconds before the beetles reached them, maybe longer. "Actually, aha!" Bob turned around and strode fifty paces back. He had maybe a minute and a half now. Progress. Now he'd just have to cobble up a plan.

Bob started to smile. In the confusion, the noise, the adrenaline, Bob had almost forgotten that he'd actually prepared for this encounter in advance. He didn't need to make a plan. He already had a plan.

"George," he eyed the dog with a mean glint that would have struck terror into any beetle heart, "you've got those things I asked you to bring right?"

George tilted his head.

"Don't do that to me. You know all that stuff we prepared."

George stared into the distance, his head sort of tipped from one side to the other.

"George, George..." There was a warning snarl to the way Bob said the name.

George barked.

"Great, you remembered. Thank the system. Ok, can you pull out those walls for me."

George started to move.

"Wait! I know you. You're going to put them all out in the same spot aren't you? Or maybe lying on the ground or something. And then when I ask you to pick them up again, you'll pretend you don't understand or can't. Or do some other stupid thing. Look George, this is serious. Please do exactly what I tell you, okay."

Bob indicated a position on the ground, shaping out the desired angle and origination with his hands. "Here." Pop, a seven-foot tall brick wall appeared on the spot. Bob repeated his mimings. Pop, pop, pop. Bob stepped back and nodded appreciatively. Nothing quite compares to modular architecture.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

He was looking at a makeshift bunker. Six walls ingeniously arranged and designed by yours truly. The entrance had two walls set at opposing angles that acted like a funnel. This entranceway was connected to a three wall open square which formed a little room. And then the whole structure was roofed over with a single, giant overhanging flat-piece.

Now it should be obvious that when Bob said brick wall, he meant mud-brick wall. In general feel free to prefix or suffix "mud" to anything Bob says. Example: mud-wait, I-mud know-mud you-mud.

Yes they were mud-brick walls. It was a man-dog collaboration. Bob had shaped the walls using his mud powers and George had fired them with his fire breath. Naturally, they'd been a good deal of experimentation and many slabs of ruined mud-brick. But the results spoke for themselves. Bob tapped on the walls. A veritable pop-up fortress, don't you know.

And between you and me, Bob had learned a little thing or two about material engineering in the process. You'll observe these walls are not made of grass. And its virtues don't end there either. Composed of premium mud, "the good stuff", and fired at frankly ridiculous temperatures (courtesy of one golden retriever), these were mud-bricks of legend.

And don't take my word for it. Bob was a skeptical member of the MQA. He knew how to test a thing. So let's just say, a full-power stab from the system knife had barely put a scratch in these bricks. Now, credit where credit is due, the beetle horns were deadly weapons, sharp, fearsome, capable of penetrating shell and grass-wall, but there wasn't a chance in hell they'd get through these bricks.

"Whoops," Bob had spent a little too long admiring his handiwork and had to dodge two or three well-aimed horn attacks. The beetles were coming. "Inside George." Bob and George hurried down the funnel entrance and squeezed through. It was a tight fit, maybe 25-30 centimeters at the narrowest point. The two of them stood there in the small, stuffy room with only a chink of light passing from the outside. "It's not very cozy in here," Bob complained.

The beetles had tried to follow, but good design is the greatest weapon of them all. It might have been stupid to attack a nation of beetle. Foolish, arrogant, suicidal. But at least Bob hadn't gone about it in a stupid way. You remember what I said. Bob was smart-stupid. He did stupid things in smart ways. And that makes all the difference.

Bob watched through the gap as the beetles tried to navigate the funnel. He couldn't help himself. He started to laugh. Man that must have really annoyed the beetles. To see their great enemy only feet away from them, in veritable striking distance, and yet looking down on their struggles and laughing.

Needless to say, the funnel architecture was a masterstroke. It might have been the best idea Bob had ever had. Of course, funnels were a mainstay of defensive fortification. They negated an enemy's numerical superiority, forcing them to group up while at the same time allowing an easy, attack vector for defenders. But none of that was what had convinced Bob his bunker needed a funnel.

See these Kriegskäfer each had a foot-long horn sticking out of their foreheads. Now imagine, if you will, trying to navigate an ever narrowing funnel, while you're being squeezed from three sides, with a foot-long horn waving all over the place. Imagine yourself if you will, at the mercy of the funnel.

Bob watched with mounting schadenfreude as the beetles pressed into the funnel. Seven of them marched through, gradually getting squashed closer and closer together as the walls narrowed; some tried to fall back, but seven of their comrades had followed on close behind, blocking escape. And that's when it happened: one beetle's horn got caught against the side of the funnel. It was the beginning of the end. The poor beetle was pushed from behind before it could probably readjust itself, getting twisted entirely around, all the while the horn still jammed in place.

This was war and the beetle company couldn't turn itself around just because one of its number had fallen over. The back pressure grew and grew and then, snap. Bob gagged. Cut a man some slack; it was really gruesome. The horn had actually been snapped clean off the beetle's head. No not quite clean, a chunk of fiber and muscle came with the horn, dripping yellow-green slime and the hornless beetle passed out (a mercy). Bob shook his head. What an awful way to die. He looked away as the advancing soldiers mercilessly crushed their unconscious fellow underfoot.

The next incident involved a front-liner being skewered by a back-liner. In general the back ranks kept their horns partially raised, but one soldier distracted by a shove to the back lowered its horn just as the beetle two rows in front of it suddenly stopped. The horn obviously hurt, because the poked beetle tried to spin around and get eyes on his assailant. An action that plunged the whole line into absolute chaos, starting a chain reaction of further incidents, trapped horns and friendly fire. Sometimes all you need to stop an army is a well-placed funnel.

"George, we're going to be here for a while. What about that chair?"

George obliged. Bob sat himself down in the chair. Might as well get comfortable. He'd like a soft, orange life, something atmospheric. A cup of tea and a few biscuits wouldn't go amiss either. He pulled up the system stop. They were out of pylon range, but now seemed like a good time to splurge.

Bob groaned: System shop locked during combat What part of this constituted combat? That designation seems rather loose. He was sitting in his chair watching the show. And George, wow, you've got to hand it to the dog, he knows how to do a thing right. George had pulled out all the stops. First came his red bowl, then the box of dog food and finally the fancy, new bed. I wish all combat was so comfortable. Bob watched the dog chow down with real envy. He wished he'd been a little bit better supplied, but at least he wasn't standing.

He sipped on the bottle of water from his pack and leaned back in the chair. The beetles had managed to reorganize somewhat in the meantime. They'd pulled away the dead and started back down the funnel. This time three-beetles abreast. They even left a little more space between each line now. Smart little animals, weren't they? Unfortunately, there's nothing quite like a funnel. The funnel is the king of shapes.

Still it was a valiant effort and Bob applauded the creatures. He was rooting for the insects heart and soul. They made it a whole ninety-percent down the tunnel, within one foot of the little gap, before things started going pear-shaped. The three beetles were compressed together, shoulder-to-shoulder, every movement of the one impacting across his fellows. And somehow these creatures had to coordinate getting all three of their horns into a 25cm gap. It was like trying to thread three strings into the same needle using your head. And they might have managed it too, eventually, given enough time...

Alas, the beetles might have left more space between their ranks, but they hadn't quite worked out to stop and wait for the line in front. So three more beetles came up and then three more. And their horns passed over the shoulders of the forward lines, just far enough that they interfered with the needle threading attempts. And then another three beetles came up and another. A veritable scrum of beetles choked up the funnel. It turned into a complete traffic jam, a real beetle-on-beetle sandwich.

Then some more enterprising beetles (bright minds) decided they'd just climb on top of their fellows. First it was two beetles high, then three, then four, then they hit the ceiling. The funnel looked something like the inside of a pin-cushion. Horns to the left of you, horns to the right, horns behind and in front. It was one precarious tower of beetle jenga-pieces. Oh that tower was begging for an audacious player to pull out just the right piece. And here was Bob, sitting at his leisure, looking for something to do.